


Take the Sands and Feel Them Slip

by Ramzes



Series: The Conquest of Dorne [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, companion piece to Red As Blood and Cold As Sand
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2018-02-19 22:24:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2405111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ramzes/pseuds/Ramzes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can take the sand between your hands but sooner or later, you'll feel it slip. The Young Dragon learned this lesson during his failed conquest of Dorne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning of a Dream

**Author's Note:**

> A very old, now continued story. I deleted an author's note that no longer applies.

The long line of men was moving down the barely visible track and the noise the clank of their weapons produced was high enough to warn the usual four-legged passengers to stay away well before the sea of hears appeared among the underwood. Bleating, they ran panicked a good distance and from the safety of the screes that the humans had no way to reach looked back from the intruders. Their blind panic would have made men look around and detect the interlopers but there were no men here, in the highest part of the Red Mountains and the handful the newcomers had encountered, they had killed. But the people of the mountain knew better than forcing their way into its highest brow where days were cool but the nights icy beyond belief.

Looked like Dornish goatherds were smarter than the Targaryen king, men muttered among themselves. That was their fourth day into the mountain and they really felt that they could not brave another four. Their faces were covered in blisters from a wind that was so cold that they had already lost their sense of cold and felt that they were being burned; they could barely walk on the corns covering their feet and in these rocks, their footwear was mostly a vanishing memory. They carried victuals with them but no one had thought of bringing water – and this high in the mountain, it had been hours since they had last seen a muddy puddle that could, with some good will, pass for a stream.

This cursed land would kill them before its men had the chance.

The line walked and cursed softly – and not so softly – their King's folly. Why did he want Dorne so much? What would anyone win from this? The realm would be saddled with this barren land and would need to support it, for the Seven could see that there was no way that Dorne could support itself. How the cursed land had sustained its inhabitants for thousands of years was a mystery. They would all find their deaths here for no better reason that Daeron Targaryen wanted to turn add Dorne to the jewels of his crown. What he would do then, no one knew. Many suspected that Daeron himself had not thought this far. It would not surprise anyone – he had recently celebrated his fourteenth nameday. Pity that even the Hand of the King had been unable to rein him in.

They muttered so but they marched on – if their moving foot before a heavy foot and sometimes jumping much like the goats they had chased away could be called marching.

"How much do we have to go yet?"

The master squirmed and tried to avoid the unmoving stare of those purple eyes. Daeron Targaryen was young, impatient as youths were wont to, tall for his age and very handsome. Many would look at him and see only his smooth face and boyish confidence but Maester Jarvas had served at court for many years; behind Daeron's youthful charm, he could see his father's determination and his uncle's sharp wit. He shivered with superstitious fear: the gods had given this boy so much. They had only omitted to give him two things. Only two but very important: the ability to restrain himself and the ability to think of the long-term consequences of his actions. Now, Daeron was looking at him as if he had promised him a quick pass, instead of giving him warnings on top of warnings.

"I am not sure," he said. "There aren't any maps for this part of…"

"I know, I know," Daeron interrupted him impatiently. "I mean… can't you look at the undergrowth and make calculations or… something?"

All of a sudden, Master Jarvas felt very old and worn out. All those years, all those efforts, and it still looked that he hadn't taught the boy a thing.

_Can't you bring a star down for me?_

He had explained over and over that it was impossible but the little prince had wanted it still. Finally, it had dawned upon him that the Maester was right, that stars couldn't be conquered. But it had taken weeks.

They didn't have weeks now. They didn't even have days. There was no way that they could make it back alive. Their only way was to keep marching.

"I do believe that we're almost to the top," he finally said, very reluctantly. "At least, I am sure that we're more than half-way through."

Daeron nodded, satisfied, taking the old man's words as a promise that they would be there any minute now. Soon, he'd be on the top of the Red Mountains… and shortly after, on the top of his dream of fulfilling Aegon the Conqueror's ever burning desire – to make Dorne a part of his kingdom. He could not fathom how it was possible for Aegon and his sisters to fail. They had had dragons! The ones Daeron remembered from his childhood were smaller than the ancient beasts, everyone said so, but they had been huge and so, so very impressive. Not frightening, no, not to him. But others had been terrified of them. They had been so unique. It was no wonder that his ancestors had won the Seven Kingdoms when they had had them. Aegon had wanted to make a new Valyria here – and he had almost succeeded.

Daeron's eyes sparkled.

He would take Aegon's dream and make it come true.

He would join Dorne to his realm, so no one could say that the dragons were scared by snakes.

He'd become known as Daeron the Unifier. His name would be written in golden letters next to Aegon's own name. That might even make his uncle stop looking at him as if Daeron was a stupid child who wanted the impossible!

Not very likely, but still.

His horse started shying away. Daeron patted him, trying to suppress his irritation. The magnificent white animal was not taking their climbing over the rocky terrain very well. In fact, their movements now were closer to scrambling. Daeron dismounted to relieve the horse and started leading him on. The armour of black and gold was impeding on his movements but he refused Maester Jarvas' suggestion to take it off.

"It doesn't matter that there is no enemy around," he said impatiently. "How are people supposed to make me out in the crowd if I look just like everyone else?"

The maester saw that there was no use to insist.

So, the line kept dragging on into the encroaching night. Men complained of their corns, blades became so sticky that they could not be unsheathed, Daeron was numb under the weight of his armour and sometimes he felt almost as if he had to push the horse forward… but at noon the next day, the moment came when above him, there was only sky. He looked around, looked at his men, at the mountain in his feet, and let out a cry of triumph, as if he were already holding the victory in his hands.

 


	2. Sound Reason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am, after a three years of hiatus! I can't believe it. I'll be amazed if anyone remembers this short beginning of a story but here it is – a companion piece of Red As Blood and Cold As Sand. Kind of.

The young king had expected that the conquest of the least populated area in Westeros would take three months or perhaps four, if things dragged for too long. He had never taken into account the possibility of a year.

Vulture's Roost, Kingsgrave… He could not say how many of his men had died there and the slain Dornishmen could surely fit the royal fleet. At the nights he spent in the lords' chambers, he saw the fires, heard the weeping of widows, orphaned mothers, old wives who had lost their entire kin in just a few days. Another kind of weeping made him turn his head away and order the musicians to go higher and higher yet because he could not deprive his men of this part of their spoil and it haunted him to hear it taken despite knowing that the women were probably screaming just to save face if they needed to save face at all. Everyone knew how lewd Dornishwomen were!

During the day, he walked around the ruined, burned villages and towns, constantly ordering his guard to stay away. He believed in his destiny but they – they only saw the hatred. A cast stone. An arrow. Poison that an old man tried to splash into his face and took his stallion instead. The magnificent beast that was the pride of the King's Landing stables died in agony a few hours later and when Daeron made his next round, the bodyless head of the wannabe murderer grinned at him from a peak. Not that it stopped the others. And not that their fate was any different.

This fact did not stop them either.

Daeron's anger grew, along with his bewilderment, for while he had met his fair share of Dornish men at-arms at the battlefields, these were smallfolks launching these desperate, ridiculous, suicidal attacks.

What did this people want? What more could its lords offer it? There wasn't even enough bounty in the settlements to please his men, so he had to write to King's Landing for additional funds. He could well imagine the face his uncle had pulled at reading his missive!

Dorne was such a poor land that going under his rule could not possibly make things worse for the people, especially the smallfolk – it could only do them good! And yet in each battle, at every siege, there were just as many bodies of peasants with makeshift – and generally bad quality – weapons as men at-arms and lords. Oh, he would give the Dornishmen this! Their lords were no cowards! Lyonel Tyrell had told him, his tone befuddled, that they had buried three Manwoodies after just one battle. Three lords. Or perhaps two lords. No one could say for sure which one of Lord Manwoody's sons had predeceased the others, they only knew that the father had perished first.

After which the new Lord Manwoody had decided against enjoying his new status. No, he had forfeited his life by not opening the gates of Kingsgrave to them. Daeron had barely decided to spare his life, taking him prisoner instead because it would send a bad message to the other Dornish lords, Aemon had insisted.

This advice had soon been proven wrong. No one was impressed with Daeron's sound reasoning – he had recently started to suspect that he was dealing with people who lacked any! His armies were advancing, his successes were known – and felt –by everyone and still these people refused to surrender. They fought to the last breath and then some, each small stronghold resisting fiercely and not a single traitor came outside to win some coins, as if the inhabitants would lose so very much if they surrendered! _What are they going to lose_ , Daeron wondered and his pressure grew along with the obstacles.

Needless to say, all these towns and castles of stupid resistance were conquered. Daeron set them to a massacre that, according to Aemon, was even stupider than their defiance. "Who are you going to rule over? The desert?" he asked over and over as Aegon snorted and told him that he was so meek that Aegon was amazed that he had joined the Kingsguard and not the Faith, for he'd certainly make a better septon than a fighter. As if Daeron needed to play the peacemaker between his cousins right now! Returning to the more important matters, he ordered his men to butcher all down the line and as the Oakenfist told him when he first witnessed the event, he contributed to the growing of the resistance – if people would die anyway, why not give a cause? Only the Lord of Sandstone and a few tiny towns, a little more than fortified villages, surrendered – and this after the majority of the population had fled, having the foresight to take all the foods and livestock with them and burn their crops, so the seizures brought Daeron's armies next to nothing.

These were the circumstances under which he conquered Sunspear – and stupidly thought that his hour of glory meant everything was over, and the way he wished it, at this. Far from that! The Prince of Dorne might have sworn fealty but he still put obstacles in Daeron's path in many different ways. Less than a week after the submission of Sunspear, Daeron's spies started bringing the first men – and women! – serving as messengers between the Old Palace and those of note who had escaped capture.

"The Toland crone is there on the large," Aegon spat angrily at one of their regular meetings at dawn – he hated being roused so early. "And everyone says she commands great respect. When she talks, people listen, even if she proposes things that are downright harmful for them. She was the bitch who ordered to burn the provisions at the seaside warehouse, just so we won't have them."

Alyn Velaryon cast him a sharp look. This conquest had brought him a new string of celebrated victories but he seemed to have aged with years and on his face, a perpetual look of distress had settled. "We already talked about this," he said. "We're looking for her. Do we need to waste more time discussing the woman? We don't have her; we'll think of her abilities when we capture her. We have enough troubles on our hands right now."

Aegon did not seem impressed by the not so veiled rebuke. "Your fondness for the lady is well-known," he said. "But I'm afraid you're going to end up disappointed. No matter how valiantly you may fight her cause here, she isn't likely to forget that you killed her sons. Mothers are just unreasonable this way."

"I didn't kill him!" the Oakenfist almost shouted, rising from his seat, his face a mask of rage.

"Whatever," Aegon said, shrugging. "She's wed to our captive, Lord Manwoody here, and if she escapes this city, she can raise both Ghost Hill and Kingsgrave against us. I think finding her is a matter of first priority."

Daeron leaned back in this uncomfortable throne in the Tower of the Sun. Aegon had the right of it but lately, he had found himself increasingly reluctant to give an ear to any of his cousin's suggestions. There was this peculiar gleam in Aegon's eyes that told him his cousin would not be too mournful if some of these mad Dornishmen managed to make good on their intentions and leave this desert short of a conqueror.

He reached for the plate before him, checked himself, and nodded at his sampler to come close. He was getting so tired of having the man taste everything, even this blasted blood orange in front of him! His impatience made him want to test Aegon's patience as well, so he did not confirm that his cousin was right about this Toland woman. Instead, he narrowed his eyes at Aegon. "Speaking of women, what's going on with yours? I heard Princess Larra was unwell. We can ill afford any rumours that we have made her ill, you know."

Aegon shrugged, unconcerned. "It's nothing. She's breeding, I think. Naerys looked the same drab each time she was expecting."

Lord Velaryon shook his head and Aemon gave his brother a look of sheer disgust. "Do you need to talk about your wife this way? And our cousin?"

Aegon huffed but wisely avoided the topic of Naerys, instead focusing on the Prince of Dorne's sister. "This bitch is no kin of ours. Do I need to remind you that the other Larra whore, our sainted mother, sped back home without a care? This one sent her son, the Blackmont brat, to Essos but stayed here. She knew what would come and she wanted it. And in her cunt, a new life will spring. Isn't this wondrous?"

Daeron felt repulsed. He knew what had happened to the woman – not with just Aegon but a few soldiers before him. As much as he wanted to believe that Aegon was right and his conquest was over, eclipsing even Aegon the Conqueror's achievements, he knew he still had much work to do.

 


End file.
